Dies Cinerum
by Starliteyes17
Summary: Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.


_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

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**Dies Cinerum**

**---**

_John_

He carefully washed Dean's back, trying to be gentle. His hands shook, either from shock or worry he did not know.

Mary was dead, but Dean was somewhere John couldn't follow too.

"Dean, kiddo?"

Dean did not respond, just continued to stare at the wall of the bathtub, his face a blank. There was no terror in his eyes. For John, this was both a blessing, and a curse.

John rubbed Dean's back for a moment. When Dean didn't stir, John sighed and grabbed the Johnson's Baby Shampoo.

"Kiddo, I'm going to wash your hair now, okay? That means I have to touch your head, but don't worry because it's just me. Okay, Buddy?"

Dean's eyes, which had been so intent on the yellowed tiles, slid over to stare into John's own. Before John had a chance to read what was written there, Dean closed them and looked away.

"Okay, kiddo?"

Barely, Dean nodded.

John squirted some of the liquid into the palm of his hand. With a deep breath he slowly raised his arms to Dean's head. Going against what John had expected, Dean didn't flinch away. Mary was the one who usually did this, after all. Dean merely sat there, his eyes closed, as John rubbed and massaged. The man watched as gray suds casually rolled down Dean's neck in rivulets. John would have to cleanse the rest of him again. He thought bitterly that Mary would have remembered to wash Dean's hair first.

_It should have been me._

An innocent humming noise resounded in the room. Low and quiet, but penetrating John to the core.

"Dean, what are you doing, son?"

Dean stopped his soft singing, the first sounds he had uttered in twelve hours, since the house had burnt and Mary had...

"Dean, listen Kiddo, whatever it is you can tell me. Please son, please, tell me," John begged. In the makeshift crib of blankets behind him, Sammy stirred, but John didn't take his eyes off of Dean.

The four-year-old's eyes opened, and John saw tears there.

"Ashes, ashes, we all fall down, Daddy?"

It was sung like a question, and whispered like a prayer. John didn't have the heart to give the answer.

---

_Dean_

"You and fire are like salt and pepper, Dean," Sam had told Dean once, after a normal salt'n'burn. Dean didn't argue, because by all accounts it appeared to be true.

Dean didn't like fire. In fact, Dean hated it with a passion. Fire had stolen too many things for him. But at the same time, Dean understood fire. It had been in his father's eyes every November for twenty-two years.

It had been in Dean's own eyes every May for the last three.

Fire came and plundered, spread and dissolved. It ate away at everything in its path. In Dean's life, there had been no exceptions. Until last night.

"_We've got work to do."_

Now, it was eight a.m. on November 3rd and Dean was outside their motel room, buckets of soapy water and washcloths surrounding him. The Impala had been covered in filth from the fire, and Dean wanted to clean it before Sam had a chance to see it in daylight – to see in all reality, the ashes of his life.

Dean had even gotten up early to get it done, though he was fairly sure Sam wouldn't be making an appearance any time soon. After finally cajoling Sam into lying down at three in the morning, Dean had given him a glass of water, two sleeping pills, and a silent order that if he didn't cram both in his mouth immediately, Dean would take care of it for him.

Needless to say, Sam was still out of it and probably would be for a while. Or at least, Dean hoped so – the kid needed to rest.

Dean sang softly as he carefully rubbed down the Impala. She looked a million times better, and Dean couldn't help letting out a low whistle in Her honor. Dean grabbed the two buckets and went back inside, prepared to clean them and finish the job altogether. Sam was still nestled in the bed, snoring.

He was awake when Dean came out of the bathroom a few minutes later. He hadn't moved, but his eyes were open, staring out through the windows at the Impala, pristine and gleaming.

Dean came and sat down at on his own bed, effectively getting into Sam's view of the car.

"Sam?" he asked softly.

Sam blinked and cleared his throat. "She looks good."

Dean gave a short smile, and bit his cheek. "You want to... go get breakfast or something? My girl looks best on the road, you know."

Sam closed his eyes and turned away, towards the wall. Dean cursed inwardly at his poor choice of words.

"No, I... how about you go? I just want to..."

Dean nodded, then realizing Sam couldn't see it, muttered, "Okay Sammy. You get some rest. I'll be back."

"Yeah."

Sitting in his car less then a minute later, Dean couldn't help but twist his nose at the smell. She may look good on the outside, but you could only breathe ashes in her soul.

Dean grimly smirked.

_I may hate fire_ _but it's the irony that's a bitch._

---

_Sam_

Next to Sam on the pew sat an old bearded man, his eyes hidden by thick glasses. He wore all black, and Sam couldn't help but notice how alone he appeared. Sam wondered if he looked that lonely too.

Sam focused back on the front of the sanctuary, where the priest was, and followed suit as he motioned all to stand.

"And the LORD said to him, 'Go through the city, through Jerusalem, and put a mark upon the foreheads of the men who sigh and groan over all the abominations that are committed in it.' And to the others he said in my hearing, 'Pass through the city after him, and smite; your eye shall not spare, and you shall show no pity; slay old men outright, young men and maidens, little children and women, but touch no one upon whom is the mark. And begin at my sanctuary.' So they began with the elders who were before the house. Ezekiel, chapter nine, verses four through six. The world of the LORD."

"Thanks be to God," Sam uttered along with the congregation, and then began making his way to the center aisle.

Standing in line, Sam couldn't help but think of Dean, and how impatient he would be if it had been his turn tonight. After all, you had to wait around 'til nobody was watching to snag some of the good H2O, and that was hard to do on a night like this.

In front of Sam, the old man walked forward, and then lowered his head as if in prayer when the priest marked him. Sam remembered dimly that the letter 'X' resembled the Greek letter chi, which began the Greek version of Christos. Sam wondered if that had been on purpose as he stepped forward for his turn.

The priest dipped his finger in the ashes.

Ash Wednesday was a day for forgiveness, and day to be marked as a loved son or daughter of God.

Sam closed his eyes as the mark was placed on his forehead.

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Sam turned and walked back to his seat. The old man watched him as he sat down, and even obscured by the glasses Sam could feel the pity emanating from the stiff figure. However lonely the old man had looked, Sam knew he must seem lonelier.

"_I needed to think that there was something else watching too, you know? Some higher power. Some greater good. And that maybe ._ . ."

"_Maybe what?"_

"_Maybe I could be saved."_

The mark of absolution was writ above his eyes, but Sam could taste the bitterness of ashes on his tongue.

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A/N: "Dies Cinerum" is Latin for "Day of Ashes."


End file.
